The islands we keep. Determining whether they will wait for us. The poisons that cure us. Pondering their next disease. Waiting for the island to recognize. These weak skins that would separate. The bones from the meat. The particles from the atom. A limping fire in her belly. As she tries on the future in fits of skin.

Barbarians and monkeys. Push that boulder up its mountain. Angry gods argue with stubborn men. Evolutions combing through this swamp of flesh. In manic pulses and broken pencils.

The world is waiting. The world is anxious. To find the lost. Title the demons. And finish the poems. In a rage of possible ends. The world is quiet. Humble. Determined. To prove. That there is something to be found in it.

That lost is. Near enough.

The ghosts are gone. There is nothing to want here. Except the end. Atoms in creaking steps. That lead up to barren attics. mildewed dolls still undressing.